Dust
by TangleFox
Summary: A story of the brief and troubled romance of Jonesy and Sophie.


**Note: While this is heavily based on the series _Carnivàle _and it's fine array of characters, I will be taking a few liberties in changing some of the events/facts. This fanfic is just for fun. Two seasons wasn't enough, and I wanted to know more about the troubled romance between Jonesy and Sophie. Since that will never happen, I decided to write it myself. The story will begin before Ben is picked up by the traveling carnival, but will eventually intercept that storyline, though not heavily. Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 1** - **Blooming in the Dust Bowl**

For nearly as far back as I can remember, I've always known one thing- Jonesy was good people. Mama and I had been shakin' dust with a traveling carnival since I was as knobby kneed as a newborn fawn, and Jonesy had been like a father to me just as long. I had never known my real father, and Mama always closed shop when I went to asking after him.

My Mama wasn't much more than a "vegetable" these days (doctor said she must have had one hell of a shock), lying in our little camper day in and day out, eyes wide to the ceiling, never blinking, and me being the only one that understood her. You see, my mother didn't talk no more than she did anything else for herself. Everyday I had to wash her, feed her and keep her company. Mama and I have a special way of communicating... kinda like telepathy. Drives me crazy, I'll tell you- it's like I can't get her out of my head. Sometimes I really wish she had someone else to talk to.

Growing up, I was always thankful for Jonesy's friendship. With Mama laid up and all the other carnies too busy to entertain a dust covered imp, I could appreciate, young as I was, that Jonesy always seemed to have time to toss a ball with me or listen to my wild fantasies about how his leg must have gotten all banged up. Whether or not he had been mauled by a crazed carnival bear... I don't right know, but he was always patient and humored me as I marveled and prodded at the leather brace that ran the length of his leg. Jonesy used to be a professional ball player before he got injured, see- and knowin' that made me sad sometimes.

Now that I think on it- I've seen my fair share of freaks come and go on the long dusty road to nowhere, but Jonesy has always been my constant. Well, him and Samson of course. Samson is the dwarf who runs our little show. He's even kinda like me in a way... Where I speak for Mama, Sampson speaks for management. No one cept' Sampson is allowed to talk to management, and we all like that setup just fine. Just walking by his trailer gives me the heebee-jeebees. But back to what I was saying... Jonesy held no surprises for me. He was always the same ol' reliable Jonesy and for that, I loved him dearly.

But lately, something seems wrong with him. He's different somehow. He looks at me different too. We used to get on so smoothly, like ham and cheese on rye, but now he gets all tongue tied and fumbles in his step when he's around me. Sure, he's got his busted leg and all, but I've never seen Jonesy take a mis-step- not once in my life... and it all seemed to start the day I got my boobs.

With all the dusty men around, I had never put much thought into... well, *lady-things*. You can imagine my surprise the first time I bled. Hollered like I was dying till the Bearded Lady came and rescued me and explained about ol' Auntie Flo. Auntie Flo's a right bitch, just so you know... But first came my titties. Little things in the beginning, but they didn't waste any time. One day they were little skeeter bites, and the next they were full as grapefruits.

Now, I knew that most ladies wore a brassiere to keep their breasts from looking like runny eggs, but none of Mama's old ones fit me proper and I couldn't rightly steal one from one of our dancers. I would have asked them about finding me one, but Mama always told me not to mingle with such women. So I figured I would ask the only person who I trusted completely- Jonesy.

Having very little feminine influence in my life, I didn't see any problem that evening, one year back, when I marched right up to Jonesy and pulled my overlarge shirt tight across my chest to show him my predicament. I swear Jonesy must have spit his soda pop ten yards. Face turned red as a beet, too. None of the other roustabouts seemed to mind, in fact, most of em' was grinnin' ear to ear, but Jonesy snapped my arm up quick as lightning so's I let go of my shirt and shouted at the other men to get back to work.

I had never seen Jonesy mad before, but he shook me proper and asked me "what the devil I thought I was doin'." I was fifteen and three quarters at the time, and plenty defiant as I looked him right back in the eye, lip stuck out shamelessly. When I told him I only needed some lacy lady things, he turned a shade redder than beet, I swear. I did notice, however, that his eyes trailed down, very briefly, to the faint contours pressed out against the workman's shirt I wore.  
We never were quite the same after that evening.  
I was sent back off to my camper after a heated lecture about parading in front of the roustabouts. Parading, my ass. I was talking to no one but Jonesy. And what did they care anyhow?

Jonesy never did speak to me that night about getting my own brassiere, but the next morning a buxom dancer named Rita Sue came and pulled me under her wing and took me to town to find a couple things suitable. I had never been sized up as a woman before, but Rita Sue seemed to approve on the whole.  
"You got the face of a fox on you girl, and eyes black as anything... but your skin is fine and fair and you've got more than enough curve for a girl your age. Ought to try dancin' with us in a couple a' years... might make yourself a decent livin'. Better'n reading them cards in that old dusty trailer with your Mama whispering her devilry in your ears, anyhow."  
It was nice of Rita Sue to offer, but I don't think I'll be dancin' none. I got a mind-full from mama later for driving off into town with "that whore." She even summoned enough concentration to send our best dishes flying against the wall.

I'm sixteen now, a couple months shy of seventeen and I've a better mind for not "paradin'" about. The rousties never did forget that night, and Jonesy's worried himself sick over keeping their greedy eyes off me. Always tellin' em I'm "just a child." Funny- it don't seem to stop him none. There's something different in the way _he_ looks at me, though. Jonesy doesn't put me on edge like an hungry animal, ready to jump. His is more of a look of... longing, or something. I wish he'd talk to me more. I get the sense that he's keeping some moral distance. Seems to think it's wrong to pass daylight with me nowadays. Sure, he's got 19 years on me, but I don't see why we can't be friends, same as always...


End file.
